I heard a thump upon the deck last night,
and searched today to find the noisy source.
Before I saw the fallen rock, my sight
was taken by these spectacles, of course.
Undoubtedly, some squirrel dropped them right
before my office door with no remorse.
But when an hour passed, a raccoon crossed,
and looked around as if for something lost.
(Ottava Rima)
She said that’s not the way she picks a book,
when I suggested browsing website stacks.
Her strident tone of voice was all it took
to redirect my talk. I didn’t wax
sarcastic or remind her how she’d look
with scorn and cringe at similar syntax.
But silently I registered contempt
for letting policy prevent attempt.
(Ottava Rima)
The hyper horde of freshmen have beset
my town of late. They poured
from cars, offloading gear, incurring debt:
the hyper horde.
In blue-and-yellow gear they arrowed toward
long registration lines, to stand and sweat,
while I avoided streets they tour-explored.
But waiting for my bus, I felt their threat.
They teemed and couldn’t move to let me board.
I bailed and walked, inclining to regret
the hyper horde.
(Roundel)
It seems Nextdoor attracts a local group
with whom I wouldn’t party or converse
about the things that interest me. Each scoop
of news reports a lurk or something worse:
invasion caught on camera from a stoop;
smashed auto glass; a shoving grab of purse.
They write of fright at noises every night
that aren’t like the varmints in my site.
(Ottava Rima)
Is this unease I feel? What’s bugging me?
My health is good, the weather’s fine; today
I have no tasks, no place I have to be,
and as I run an intimate survey,
I’ve not offended friends or family.
I haven’t lost my memory or way.
My slate is clean. I’m struck with no mishap.
There’s nothing wrong. Perhaps I’ll take a nap.
(Ottava Rima)
I’m not a nudist but I’ve been around
some clothing-optional environments:
hot tubs, exotic beaches, places found
in wilderness or travel. No offense
was ever offered and I try to ground
my vision, but to me it makes no sense
to bare the skin to San Francisco cold –
in 63 degrees, this body’s bold.
(Ottava Rima)
A skunk explored the garden yesterday
at 10 a.m. – a little late to show.
Twelve hours later raccoons raced their way
across my roof. They thumped and scurried so,
I nearly yelled through skylights – “time to go!”
I found a moving bug inside the stone
that split within my peach. I rose to throw
it out. An owl crooned a tender tone.
(Huitain)
My thoughts are stuffed with pillows recently,
inspired by a sham that shows some stain,
compounded by a purchase bought for me –
a cushion filled with buckwheat hulls, a main
support I’ve taken to use frequently.
The sham is old – it’s more than served. It’s lain
too long abed. I looked and browsed, and face it –
I’m filled with will and down to now replace it.
(Ottava Rima)
I want to be engaged but I’m annoyed –
bad grammar, sentence fragments, run-ons too.
If they were used deliberately, employed
in aid of narrative or ringing true
to dialect, supporting point of view,
well that would be excuse. But this is bad.
The plot’s okay, but can I see it through?
Poor overwritten language makes me mad.
(Huitain)
My mood was good already, but it rose
a little higher when I saw the birds –
two pigeons gazing roadward in a pose
suggesting they were monitors of cars.
They perched, wings folded, steel beneath their toes,
and seemed when traffic passed them to converse.
I snapped two photos, grinning, and I chose
to capture them as well in careful words,
selecting wings of meter over prose.
(Magic 9)
 | sputterpub on Old Haunt |
 | zumpoems on Old Haunt |
| sputterpub on Master of Destruction |
 | groomie on Master of Destruction |
| sputterpub on Vacuum |
Sputterpub's Blog 